The Forgotten Debts
by EggyMcPherson
Summary: Lorien has fallen, and we have traveled to Earth. Together, we fight for your sake. But do you truly know who "we" are? Throughout the lore of the Nine and their Cêpans we have been referenced, but you do not know who we are. The Nine owe us a life debt. This is our story. (Basically a bunch of OCs, no current pairings of any type).


**A/N:** Welcome to my first fanfic! I kinda expected to write on a different series (PJ&O/HOO, RA/BBC, etc.) but I guess this idea came first. Please, **please, **_please, _review with constructive feedback. I'd really appreciate it. I probably won't be able to write quite as much as would make you (my readers) happy, but at least I'll try to make them quality! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Dang… that's a lot of exclamation marks. Er… I'll try and cut down :D Also, like many other writers, I'm encouraged by reviews. So, just drop me a quick PM or review so I know who read my fanfic. This fanfic WILL CONTAIN spoilers about the books (not sure which, probably all of them). If you haven't read the books or aren't driven by some ulterior motive, why read fanfics? Just putting this out here for those people who like to complain about the obvious. Alright, enough talking, into the fanfic!

* * *

A new name. A new place. And why? All because an entire race of beings wouldn't listen to the cry of their dying planet and their inexorable mindset of war and destruction. It only took them a day and a half to wipe out our capital city, and less than a week to silence what frail resistance we had left. From there I don't know for sure how long it took to clear Lorien of the vast majority of her resources, though I can estimate they finished before we reached Earth. Yes, I was on the ship carrying the Nine away from our hibernating planet, although you won't find any mention of me in ol' Pittacus' journals. No, I was one of the Loric who made it off our doomed planet- and were essential to the survival of the Nine- and escaped the mention in the lore of Pittacus. Although that has almost certainly preserved my life, I can't help but feel resentment toward the ones I tried to save, who probably don't even remember me. Not to say I don't care for the survival of my race.

For over a decade, I have lain in wait for any news of the Garde- although I don't even know how many still survive. I know that Four and his Cêpan, Brandon had been attacked in Paradise, Ohio. I hope Brandon chose to rendezvous with Four instead of being slain by the Mogadorians. With the police report of three teens stopped by a cop that reported a person with a similar appearance as Four, in addition to the telepathic powers that he showed, I'm absolutely sure that the lucky, or unlucky cop met Four. The variables in the story were with American citizen and Paradise resident Sam Goode, and the grey eyed girl that traveled with Four. I know that Sam's not Loric, but the girl... I know there was a gray eyed child on the ship. I hope Brandon had agreed to rendezvous with Four or was in the back of the car, since the cops didn't mention a middle aged man. I'd previously almost left Australia when I'd heard of the Loric numbers burned into the countryside near Santa Teresa, where I'm sure there was another battle. And then that event in India- where a group of humans had protected a supposed resurrected Hindu god seems one of the most likely candidates for a setting for the continuation of the war. And most recently, the destruction of the penthouse of the John Hancock Center in Chicago which I'm almost absolutely certain was Nine and Sandor's safehouse. I remember Sandor well, for the two years aboard the ship he was my tech support. After all, he was the only Cêpan who even vaguely knew how tech worked. Even though Sandor threw his best into learning to care for Nine as an impromptu Cêpan, he still devised ingenious devices- many that I don't understand. When I hacked into the Chicago Police interface and found pictures of training equipment found in the J.H. Center, I'm pretty sure I can still recognize Sandor's handiwork. I hope he's still alive.

I've been hidden in Australia for a couple of years. I don't know how the Mogadorians caught up to me the first few times, and I don't really know why they want me. I hope the Mogadorians don't know too much about me, and if they do I wonder if they think I know where the Garde are. I hope the scout that I saw in Bathurst was just passing through, since I decided not to draw too much attention to myself. I hope they're just trying to be thorough, and I hope they fail. In any case, they're the reason I'm sitting on edge at Sydney's Kingsford Smith Airport, sitting at the terminal before my flight to Chicago instead of sitting back at home on Lorien.  
"Last call for passenger Rukun Pavasti boarding flight Qantas 203," the announcer called out. I sighed, remembering the old sorrows I had experienced with that name. I'd taken a risk, calling myself by my Loric name for the first time in over a decade in the faint hope that one of the Cêpans, or maybe a Greeter might recognize my name. I sigh again, thinking about the rather large possibility that Lorien would never be saved, and board the plane.

I scanned the ever lessening crowd, looking for Mogadorians. I'd waited at the gate until the last moment to view each person before boarding the plane, and chose my seat in the last row for the same reason. Maybe I seem a little strange to the other passengers, staring at every person like a hermit away from the masses of humanity. I couldn't help but stare mainly at the Caucasians, since even the Mogadorian civilians look a lot less pale than humans. I don't think there are any Mogadorians on this flight, but I stay on my guard. Every bit of turbulence worries me, and I think how much it would suck if the Mogadorians started the war on humanity while I was still in the air. Would they be bold enough to blow a civilian aircraft out of the air because there was a suspected Loric on board? Or would they simply jump out of the shadows and steal me away once I'd landed? Or could they... and so on. Too keyed up to sleep on the nineteen hour flight, I whiled my way watching my fellow passengers and trying to eat my food as slowly as possible.

* * *

When I, along with my fellow passengers finally landed at O'Hare International, I breathed an audible sigh of relief. Not yet, I reminded myself, I still had to get through the airport. I wasn't quite home free yet, but I couldn't help but feel relieved that my life hadn't ended somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. I was glad that I'd packed light, and had everything I needed in a small carry-on bag that I already carried. Well, nearly everything. I reminded myself of my predetermined plan of action I'd decided on in Australia and fine tuned during the flight, which included poking around the Chicago PD and the John Hancock Center. But first, I really, _really,_ needed some sleep. Spending over a day awake was _not_ fun, in any way you spent it. And of course, as I stumbled half asleep through the airport on the way to the taxi stands, I failed to notice a trench coated individual staring intently on my back.

After walking out of the airport and catching a taxi to my pre-booked hotel, I struggled to stay awake on the way to my room. I fumbled with my room key at the door, dragged my suddenly unwieldy bag into my room. Kicking the door shut behind me, I tumbled into the twin sized bed and under its covers. I gratefully fell asleep, straight into the unwelcome hands of my dreams.

Loric dreams. Almost never a good sign when you didn't understand what was happening, and sure as hell not when you didn't like what was happening. Of course, it always started with the festival. The fireworks that segue from explosions eliciting excitement, anticipation, and nostalgia to explosions that scream with violence. The "Herald" that we all misunderstood, and the Mogadorian jammers that operated just out of normal visual orbit. Sandor had told me about the problems that he'd noticed with the Grid, and confided in me how his selfish ploy to meet Demitra had killed everyone in the LDA. He'd told me that he knew it wouldn't make a difference, that those that were killed in the initial bombing wouldn't have survived the destruction of our planet, but he still blamed himself especially for Daxin's death. When I reminded him of the responsibility he had to take care of Nine, he smiled briefly, and told me, "I don't think I'd be able to hang on without him." I'm thankful for his honesty and openness.

I dreamed now of the days before the attack, of how I'd proposed to my fiancée Elina inside one of the most fancy restaurants in Lorien, the sheen of her eyes as she accepted, and the passionate kiss we shared after. Most of the time she held a reserved demeanor, although one of the reasons that I'd grown to love her as much as I did was the way she carried herself with grace and dignity. Before I started dating her, I'd rarely seen her smile, even when there was a laughing crowd around her. She seemed to smile with her eyes the most, but somehow- I'd opened up something inside her. She often graced me with those entrancing smiles at the dinner table, and occasionally showed her most intimate desires and passions. Like when she kissed me that night. Naturally, I've always been a self conscious person and never really wanted to attract any real attention. I've always been grateful to pushing the attention to someone else. So of course, when I discovered one of Elina's legacies was the subtle manipulation of ambience, I was overjoyed. Usually, she'd lightly shift the attention away from our table, causing our fellow patrons to glance over us. But that night, her attention slipped, and as we kissed the restaurant grew silent. And I realized, that tonight- I didn't mind the attention. Inside, I was glowing as we pulled each other closer to deepen the kiss, but rather fortunately for our dignity, one of the restaurant's middle aged patrons coughed meaningfully and tapped the side of his nose in that all-too-familiar gesture of embarrassment. We abruptly sat down, smiling at each other throughout the rest of the evening.

Sometimes, I regret that I hadn't quite lived my life to the fullest. Especially toward the destruction of Lorien. Sometimes, I feel that I could have brought more peace, or more joy to the people around me, but other times I know that I wanted to simply have more happy dreams. These days, even my memory of Lorien is fading, stifled by the years on Earth, but the grief and most unwanted feelings stayed as strong as ever. I know that there was no way I could have known, and shouldn't feel the regret, but... when your whole damn planet is more or less dead, can you not feel at least a touch of depression? No small wonder then, that I found myself once again reliving my past. When? My last day on Lorien, the day of the attack.


End file.
